


the switch

by sinead



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinead/pseuds/sinead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These days, he sometimes felt someone had thrown a switch inside of him, and he would never be able to turn it off again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the switch

**Author's Note:**

> (Made up. Not true. Chimerical. Fanciful. Imaginary. Suppositious. Fiction.)

They were on a soundstage, a big, echoing cavern full of glaring lights and people, and everywhere Justin turned he had to worry about bumping into someone who was busy doing their job, who had more right to be in that space at that moment than he did. It wasn't his video that was being choreographed and rehearsed and shot, after all; it was Britney's. 'N Sync was there because their publicists, 'N Sync's, and Britney's, and the editor of every damn teen magazine in the country, it seemed, thought it would a good idea if they were photographed hanging with Brit. On the set of her new video. It would demonstrate their interest in the creative process, they were told, although as Joey said, nobody ever got fuck-all done hanging around getting their picture taken on a soundstage, and shooting a video was less about the creative process than just plain hard work.

Lance put out a hand and steadied him as he stumbled over a cable. Justin had had another growth spurt, and was still getting used the length of his own legs. It was strange to suddenly be so much taller than Lance, when they had seemed the same height for so long. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Nice trip?" Lance asked, and gave him a goofy grin, but Justin felt better, and punched his arm softly. At least Lance never changed--dependable Lance, still so much the same gentle boy, despite his new hairstyle, and his generally having finally lost that look of wide-eyed astonishment at waking up famous every day.

"When do you think we are going to be able to take the fucking pictures and get the hell out of here?" he asked irritably. He didn't expect Lance to know--why would he?--or even to answer, really. And suddenly Justin felt bad for sounding irritated, for swearing in front of Lance, who might take it wrong.

But Lance just rubbed a hand over his back, and said calmly, "Soon, I think--I saw the photographer setting up, and they're gonna have to take a break before somebody passes out." He pointed his chin at the clump of dancers, sweating and panting as they stood on the set and listened to the choreographer's instructions.

"Playback," someone shouted, and a recording of Brit's new single came loudly over the speakers. Justin watched her, under the blindingly hot light, dressed in a leotard and a leggings, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face tense as she twirled in the arms of one of the dancers, her lips moving slightly as she counted. He liked her like this. He still recognized her like this, as the girl he had rehearsed with on the set of the MMC.

"Okay, let's break for lunch." At that shout, the dancers scattered, and Britney came over to them, towing the boy she had been dancing with by the hand. He was shorter than Justin, compact and dark, and moved with a graceful economy that made Justin feel like a giraffe on stilts.

"Lance, Justin, this is Paul," she said. Up close, Justin could see the cleavage of her breasts in the low-cut neck of the leotard, could see how the damp shiny fabric clung to her, and the memory of MMC dissolved, and he noticed her hand on this guy Paul's arm, sort of stroking it, and he was suddenly furious.

"Hey," he said shortly, not wanting to get into it with this guy, not wanting to show Britney that she was pissing him off, as he suspected she knew all too well. Lance, like the polite, well-raised boy that he was, stuck out his hand, and said, "Nice to meet you, Paul."

Justin took advantage of the momentary distraction to pull Britney to one side. He didn't know if he wanted to kiss her or argue with her, so he settled for saying crossly, "Can we get this shit over with?" She was looking up at him and stroking _his_ arm now, and saying something about make-up and her costume, and all Justin was really conscious of was the little trickle of sweat that ran down into the dark crevice between her breasts, and all he could think about was how it looked like the space between thighs, or the shadowy cleft of an ass, and how it would feel if he were to press his dick there, and jesus, now he was hard as well as pissed off. He concentrated on the calm murmur of Lance's voice, still talking to that dancer guy, and managed to say, "okay, okay," when Britney finished pouting and assuring him that it wouldn't take her long to get ready.

Then the photographer's assistant came to get them, and told them they were going to start with a few shots of the guys alone. The make-up girls powdered and blotted them, and they fell easily into their picture taking routine, posing, goofing around, hoisting JC up to hold him stretched sideways in front of them. Only now, Justin, who was holding JC's hips, felt the press of JC's backside against him, his thighs tingling at the touch. He felt Joey draped over him like a big warm bear when they were all standing in a line, felt Chris' hand on his chest, brushing his nipple, as they mock-wrestled and the photographer shouted encouragement, and it was like his skin had knowledge that he was only beginning to guess at. These days, he sometimes felt someone had thrown a switch inside of him, and he would never be able to turn it off again.

He couldn't look at Lance, couldn't look into Lance's clear green eyes, because he was afraid he would see disappointment or something like it there. Lance was like him, after all. Lance and he had been taught the same things, had heard the same sermons, had sung the same hymns. Lance would know a fall from grace when he saw it.

Finally the photographer finished and let them go. There was still no sign of Britney; someone said that she was changing into her costume for the video, since they would start shooting after lunch. Justin only knew that he had to get her alone, had to touch her, and feel her touch him for just a moment, that was all. Just a moment. Perhaps he would find her before she got dressed, and she would let him touch her naked skin. She had already let him do that, recently, and he had replayed those moments in his head so often, they had almost lost the sting of shame.

There was a narrow corridor off the stage that led to dressing rooms. Justin walked down it, feeling too self-conscious to open any of the closed doors. What if he made her angry? so angry she didn't want him? At the end of the hall, one of the doors was slightly ajar. He stood in front of it indecisively, listening for voices inside the room, but there were none. He gently pushed the door open.

It was a large room, a dressing room used by the dancers. Someone had turned off a lot of the lights, so it was sort of dim, but Justin could see the open bags and towels scattered around. A movement at the far end of the room caught his eye. A person, in the shadows thrown by a rack of clothes. There was a platinum gleam of hair, and Justin realized the person standing there in the shadows was Lance.

Lance didn't see him. He had a smaller, lithe, dark-haired boy in his arms. The contrast of the light and dark heads was vivid as they pressed their open mouths together. There was a flash of tongue, and the dark haired boy moaned and pressed his body up, into Lance's, his hands clutching convulsively on Lance's neck and back. Justin realized that Lance had his hand inside the boy's pants, inside his open fly, and Lance's hand was moving.

Paul, thought Justin. His name is Paul. As he thought this, Paul slid down along the length of Lance's body, and buried his face in Lance's crotch.

Justin turned blindly and managed to get through the door of the dressing room. It closed with a click behind him, and he thought he heard a smothered exclamation from inside the room, but then he was rushing down the hall. He made it outside, and leaned against the exterior wall of the soundstage. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face and the pounding of his heart. He remembered when Lance first joined the group, and how he had secretly liked it when Lou had saddled Lance with the nickname "Lansten".

Lansten, he thought. What a stupid name. I just liked it because it sounded like Justin. Eventually, his erection subsided, and he was able to go back inside.

"Where'd you go, man?" Chris asked, and Joey cast him an odd look. Britney looked peevish, and Lance merely gave him a concerned glance and didn't say anything. Justin held up his cell phone.

"Had to make a call, and I couldn't get a good signal in here," he said.

"Calling up the laaay_deeeez_," JC teased, and Britney's peevishness grew.

"Can we just do this already," she snapped, but Justin didn't care. He knew JC didn't want him to get too serious about Britney; he had once tried to make him promise they wouldn't get engaged or anything. He had brushed JC off then, but now he realized that C was right. As they got into the positions the photographer directed them to, Justin thought, I really do need more experience. With other girls. Other people.

Lance stood next to him, pressed against his side, as Justin rested his chin on Britney's carefully coiffed head. He could feel her hold herself stiffly against him. He could smell her perfume, the hair spray and make-up, and behind them all, he could smell Lance. He thought about turning and burying his face in Lance's neck, inhaling that sweet sharp scent of soap and Lance's sweat and sex. But he kept his eyes straight ahead, and on the photographer's command, he smiled, smiled, as the flash went off.


End file.
